the gently rocking cradle
that is memaw’s old house
or the sweet bourbon aroma
that rides within the wind
mixing with pine and newly opened peony
it could be the creak of the rocking chair
or the sway of the hammock
the way everything is softer here
and the creek with the swinging bridge is an old family friend
down home thunderstorms bring lightning upon blackened canvas
that turn the sky into a jackson pollock painting
stone paths are blooming
bees are window shopping through wild flowers
everything is pregnant
and i haven’t
3 replies on “layette”
the way everything is softer here…even the expectations….
where would we contemporary poets be without our painters with whom to paint pour poems?
lovely. I have a yearning for spring in Kentucky, for standing on that bridge.
Kentucky looks lovely on you.
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